


Knife's edge

by Solovei



Category: Last Exile
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:18:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3369245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solovei/pseuds/Solovei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILERS FOR END OF SERIES! Lucciola is still taking care of Dio as best as he can, even though everything is different now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knife's edge

Part of Lucciola was glad to leave behind his white robes. The new fabrics on Earth felt pleasantly fresh to the touch; for the first time in his life, he could choose a color to wear, as easily as one chooses to turn left or right in a branching hallway. Aboard the Silvana, he noticed that each of the mechanics wore their uniform somewhat differently; to have the ability to remain oneself, and yet be part of a larger whole... Nonetheless, a part of him was hopelessly lost. With the Guild went the only life he has ever known; he was a cog in the machine, albeit a very advanced one that was nonetheless bound by the rules that the machine set out. Where was he without it? Who was he? Lucciola never told anyone about his feelings, of course. They had enough to occupy their time.

It had been several months since the Fall. He had been taking care of Lord Dio as best as he could, but he knew full well that there was only so much to be done to counteract the damage. The Maestro’s evil spread far and deep, the cold spikes of malice reaching farther than Lucciola’s love for his master ever could. Even from beyond the sky, she was pursuing them.

That day, he had finally convinced Dio to sleep - the sun was high in the sky, but rest eluded him on most nights, giving way to fevered pacing and tearful mutterings. Having made sure the silver-haired boy was comfortable for the time being, Lucciola closed the door quietly and made his way into the kitchen. Dio would be hungry when he wakes up... He didn’t know a lot about food but he had asked Lavie to teach him some simple dishes. “Right then... I suppose I should get the potatoes ready,” he said to himself, pulling a white linen apron off the wall and taking a small knife from the drawer. He was somewhat engrossed in the task of peeling the potatoes when he registered a small sound. Looking up, he glanced behind him, left and right. Nothing but sunlight filtering through the curtains. He was about to return to the potatoes when the world plunged into darkness. Lucciola paused, tense, ready to spring into action when he felt hands cover his eyes. He relaxed, knowing their owner.

“You should be resting, my lord.”  
“I don’t want to sleep anymore. My head hurts."  
“Would you like some water?”  
“No... what are you doing, Lucciola?”  
“Preparing dinner.”  
“Oh. I wanna try too.”

And so the world became light again. He had some reservations about letting his master handle sharp objects, but in his periods of lucidity, Dio showed every bit of his old self. Still, it wasn’t clear if that meant he had moved on or simply forgotten again... Lucciola sat him down on the little stool, placing the knife into one hand and a freshly washed potato into the other. Leaning over, the placed his own hands over Dio’s and walked him through the motions, smiling warmly. It was nice not to have to hide his face so much, at least. He was learning to allow himself to speak his mind, to show his emotions, and not just in the privacy of their bedroom.

Once Lucciola removed his hands, Dio seemed intensely focused on the task, staring at the vegetable as though it was withholding information. Lucciola’s expression grew more and more concerned by the minute... Was this a good idea? Had he failed to protect his friend? They had trained together with weapons far more dangerous than a simple paring knife; falling from the Grand Stream was surely deadlier than peeling potatoes.

His optimism was ill-founded, however. No sooner had Dio made a few successful cuts that the blade slipped. A thin red line broke the alabaster of his skin, drops of dark-red blood running down the wrist. Lucciola moved quickly, with the practiced efficiency of one who had dealt with such a situation before.  Taking Dio’s hand into his own, he quickly wrapped it up with a roll of gauze from the embroidered apron pocket (a present from Alvis), ensuring the bleeding was stopped and that the bandage was not tight enough so as to interrupt the healing process.

“There we go, Lord Dio. All better.” he said with a wan smile, looking up from where he had dropped to his knees. Those blue eyes, ringed in orange, were wide but still the younger boy said nothing. “Hey, Lucciola... can you kiss it better?”

 

_Dio had taught him about kissing. They were eight and nine years old, almost too big to fit under the long table in the dining hall. Still, he climbed underneath when Dio waved him over, careful not to hit his head and make noise._

_“Hey Lucciola, I’m going to tell you something!”_

_“What is it, Lord Dio?”_

_“Do you know what happens when two people really like each other? Apis told me today! They put their mouths together and that’s called kissing~”_

_Lucciola nodded, uncertain of where this is going. “Yes, Lord Dio.”_

_Before he knew it, there were arms thrown around his neck; his master pressed his lips to his own, grinning. It was wet and strange, a sensation he has never felt before. Lucciola could feel himself blushing, his eyebrows coming together. What should he do? Seeing this, Dio only lauged and gave him a pat on the head. “That means I like you a lot, Lucciola~.”_

_“I... I like you a lot too, Lord Dio.”_

_“Of course you do~ because we’re friends!”_

The past retreats. Lucciola trails soft kisses along the inside of Dio’s palm and wrist, wherever a bandage meets skin. If this was all it took, he would do it until the end of his days, he would do it until he crumbled into dust. He feels a hand place itself on his head, fingers trailing into his hair. “All of it, Lucciola... make everything better... please...” Dio says, as warm tears splatter onto his knees.

Lucciola does the only thing he can think of; he gathers the sobbing young man into his arms, kissing his eyelids, cheekbones, temples. If kisses could heal the wounds. The half-peeled potatoes sit in their bowl, all thoughts of dinner forgotten. “I’m sorry, Lord Dio...” he says, laying kisses along his nose and forehead. “This is... all I can do.” For a long time, the room is silent. Dio lays his bandaged hand on his cheek, claiming his lips for his own. This time, Lucciola knows what to do.

 

 


End file.
